Sign of Spring
by Dunyazade
Summary: Robin earns some respect.
1. current theories

Author's Note: I confess. I love Dick Grayson. This is set in the B:TAS world, when Dick is still a little kid.

* * *

Sign of Spring

Chapter one: current theories

The Bat-signal had been on for twenty minutes when suddenly the rooftop felt a little colder. Gordon whirled around, fought back the instinct to gasp—he was _right there_, barely a footstep away. The white lenses in his mask were eerily luminous.

"Batman. Good, you're here." Gordon fidgeted with his tie before stuffing his hands back into his pockets. Batman didn't say anything, and the slump of Jim's shoulders began to look guilty. "I, well, I wanted to talk to you."

"What about?"

Gordon almost managed not to shudder at the voice. "Look, it's kind of cold out here. Would you mind stepping inside for a minute?"

Batman narrowed his gaze, and didn't answer.

The wind gusted, stirring up tiny snowflakes. Gordon sighed. "All right. It's the boy."

"Robin."

"Whatever you call him, you can't deny that he's just a child."

"He's a _crime fighter_. Like me."

Gordon's posture grew even more uncomfortable, but the conviction in his eyes never wavered. He spoke in his usual curt tone, the words slightly hurried. "The truth is, a lot of people in the department think you're crazy or worse for dragging that kid into this world of yours. And, to be perfectly honest, I have a few concerns myself."

"Forget them." It was an unequivocal order.

"I can't. I want to talk to the boy. Alone. Will you trust me that much?"

It was a daring request. A challenge. Batman seemed eight feet tall and made of stone. But at last, he answered. "Tomorrow. Your office."

The wind gusted again, and Gordon squinted a little too tightly against the onslaught of icy specks—and when he opened his eyes again, Batman was already gone.

* * *

He'd expected the boy wonder to come swinging through the window, and had left it unlocked for that purpose. That was why Gordon was incredibly surprised when a crisp knock on his door resulted in his finding one square-shouldered and serious-faced Robin standing in the hallway.

The boy took a breath. Beneath his fearless colors, Dick Grayson was terrified. This was Robin's first face-to-face meeting with Commissioner Gordon, but _Dick_ had spoken with him several times, back when his parents had been murdered. That was over a year ago now—closer to _two_ years ago, he realized with a start. But still, how could the simple mask on his face hide who he was? Gordon had been kind to him. He was sure to remember him. He was going to recognize him and it would be the end of everything.

Robin had tried explaining all that to Batman, but the Dark Knight had informed him he'd be visiting the commissioner anyway. Unfazed, Dick had cornered Bruce that morning at the breakfast table and repeated his concerns. Hearing Batman's voice coming from behind Bruce's newspaper had ended the argument.

…"You wanted to see me, Commissioner?"

Gordon blinked at him twice. He was dressed, as always alleged, in what looked like a Santa's elf costume gone horribly wrong. But his dark hair was neatly combed, and with the shirt-collar of his cape, from the neck up, (and ignoring the mask), he looked like he might've been a boy dressed up for church.

He was biting his bottom lip with just the right combination of earnestness and nervousness. Gordon couldn't help feeling an instant liking for him.

"That's right," Gordon answered, opening the door all the way. "Come on in, son."

Robin stepped into the cluttered office, and Gordon took note of the confidence in his stride. He wondered if Batman had trained that into him, or if it came naturally. Either way, it was an impressive trait for someone who only weighed about sixty pounds.

Gordon made his way to his coffee maker and picked up the pot.

"Want some?"

Robin looked up. "No thank you."

Pouring himself a cup, the commissioner sighed. "Well, 'Robin,' I guess I'll get right down to it. One thing's for sure: you're a good kid, a really nice kid. About how old are you? Ten? Eleven?"

"Yes sir—I'm ten."

Gordon looked down into his coffee. "Ten years old," he mused, and looked up again with harder eyes. "And a real nice kid. But this world, I'm sorry to say, is not always a real nice place. So that's why I have to ask you—wait, let me back up. Before I ask you anything, I want you to know that you can tell me whatever you want. If there's ever _anything_ you need to talk about, you can always come to me. If you ever need help, I'll be here for you. Okay?"

"Yes sir." The boy gave a quick nod, which almost looked robotic.

"Okay," Gordon confirmed, although he didn't sound convinced. He sipped his coffee, as if to stall for time. "And Batman doesn't have to know."

The boy looked vaguely puzzled, and the commissioner would've rather had to interrogate an entire room full of savage sociopaths than grill the kid about _anything_. "Go ahead and sit down," he said gently. Robin hopped into a chair, and sat on the very end of it, occupying no more than the first two or three inches of the seat. With his knees bent, his feet didn't quite reach the floor, and he swung them back and forth once or twice, crossed at the ankles.

Gordon sighed. "Here's the thing, son. I don't know why Batman is letting you work with him. I don't even know whether he's _letting _you or _forcing_ you to. Either way, it doesn't seem healthy. There are a lot of dangerous criminals out there. You've seen a few of them for yourself already."

"Yes sir," Robin repeated, with another nod.

Gordon stopped, and took off his glasses. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, set the glasses on his desk, and the fact that the kid looked a little blurry now saved him from losing his nerve.

"But it's not really those guys that I'm worried about," the commissioner said, as carefully as possible. "…It's Batman himself."

The kid bit his lip, as if debating whether to take that seriously.

"I know you don't want to hear this," Gordon continued, "but try and think about it from a grown-up's perspective. Batman teaming up with a kid doesn't make sense. There might be something _wrong_ with him, Robin. Trust me, I know how much good he's done for this city. But I can't ignore the possibility that he might be a very sick man. If he ever hurts you—"

"You don't have to worry about that," Robin interrupted, but with far less indignation than innocence. The commissioner waited to see if he'd continue, and, with a sudden flash of a smile, he did. "But you know, what you said about it _not making sense_ for him to work with me? Well, the bad guys don't understand it either—and that's why it works so well."

For a second, the boy's confidence was contagious, and Gordon almost found himself believing that there _was _something powerful at work behind the idea of Batman's little sidekick. Something _valid_. Something _better _than the current theories, the tamest of which entailed Batman being a sicko who brainwashed a boy and dressed him up to throw him at _worse_ sickos as a sort of distraction.

But then the ugly side of reality reasserted itself, in the form of Harvey Bullock bursting into the office. "Commish I got the prints off the sledgehammer just like you…" his voice trailed off as he noticed Gordon's guest. He pointed at Robin with one hand and reached for his holster with the other. "It's the kid!"

"I'm Robin," Robin introduced himself, smiling.

"Take it easy, Bullock," Gordon said. "He's just here to talk."

"You find out what the Bat-freak's been doin' to him yet?"

Robin frowned. Gordon sighed once more, and decided to put his faith in the impossible yet again. "So far it all seems to be exactly what it looks like: they dress up and fight crime together."

Bullock snorted. "That ain't what it '_looks like_' to me."

Gordon put his palms on his desk and rose from his seat. "That's enough." He sent a stern look at Bullock, and then returned his attention to the boy. "Robin, you can go. Thanks for stopping by."

"_Whaaat?_" Bullock practically shouted. "Are you crazy? You're actually lettin' this little vigilante walk outta here?"

"I doubt his _boss_ would approve of our keeping him," Gordon said, a hint of wry humor in his tone.

"Yeah, _exactly_," Bullock asserted. "Whatever he's using him for, it's _obvious_ this kid is his weakness. You know the entire underworld is thinking the same thing: They don't see a _Robin_, they see a _worm_ to put on a hook so they can reel in a great big _Bat_. I figure we keep the kid _now_, we save him from becoming bait later."

Gordon's eyes crinkled at the edges. "Bullock, once in a while you remind me why I haven't fired you yet. But Batman trusted me enough to send the boy over here, and now I'm going to trust Batman enough to send the boy back."

"But _commish!_ You're signing this kid's death warrant! He's gonna get killed out there!" Bullock turned to Robin, anger deep in his eyes. "You ever seen any _dead kids_, son?"

Robin shook his head, solemn. "No sir."

"Well I _have_. And I sure as hell don't wanna see no _more_."

"_Enough,_ Bullock," Gordon warned, but softer than before. The big man's shoulders slumped in defeat, and with a final glance at the commissioner, Robin slipped out of the room.

* * *

The Batmobile was waiting in an alley a few blocks away. Batman didn't even look up as Robin's reflection appeared in the top corner of his window, but he hit the button and the roof slid back at just the right instant.

Somersaulting once in the air on his way down, Robin dropped noiselessly into his seat.

"You were right, Batman," the boy wonder exclaimed right away. "He didn't recognize me."

"What did he ask you?" Batman rumbled as the roof slid shut.

Robin grinned, already buckling in. "Well, I thought he'd ask me a bunch of questions. But he only asked how old I was."

Batman nodded. "What did he want to talk about?"

"You," Robin said, still grinning. "He wanted to tell me that you might be dangerous or something." He spoke with a sort of forced smugness, as if to make it clear that he'd been told something he already knew. But Batman looked away, and sat motionless for so long that Robin began to wonder if he'd stopped breathing. "…Batman?" he asked at last.

"…I figured as much," Batman said quietly. It wasn't Batman's voice at all, and the soft, unfamiliar tone made Robin a little nervous.

"I don't get it," Robin said, worried. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Batman frowned. "It's just… you can talk to Gordon whenever you need to, all right? I trust him. Sometimes, I trust him more than I trust myself."

Suddenly Batman seemed frozen in place by the green-gloved hand that had grabbed his wrist. "Wait a minute," Robin said. "Are you saying he might be right? He thinks I shouldn't be working with you! You're not agreeing with him, are you?"

"Dick," Batman said gravely, breaking free of the boy's grasp by reaching for the shifter. "You're a critical part of my mission now. And you don't need to _prove_ anything to anyone. But if you ever want a _way out_, one that I can't give you, you can go to Gordon, and he'll help you."

Robin stared out through the windshield, Batman's words heavy on his heart. The Batmobile crawled forward, silent at first, and then the turbine spun up and rushed them away.

One thing was certain: Dick would _never_ confide in Gordon now. Because there was no way he would _ever_ want a way out.

...to be continued...


	2. in a barrel

_Author's note: sorry this is a little late! This chapter involves Dr. Milo. He's in a few episodes of B:TAS and even shows up as a Cadmus scientist in the Justice League cartoon. I guess I should also warn you that if a scene or two in here makes you squirm and say 'no!' then I've achieved what I was aiming for. I have to say I'm pretty proud of this chapter... let me know what you think!  
_

* * *

Chapter two: in a barrel

"The Gotham Aquarium?" the boy didn't even try to hide the delight in his expression. "Is that where we're going?"

Beside him, Batman nodded. "That's where Dr. Milo has his new lab."

"Cool!"

Batman narrowly avoided smiling. He let Robin break open the door.

The aquarium _was_ cool at night, and unexpectedly unnerving, with its aquatic inhabitants looming everywhere as blurs and shadows, gliding silently in their unlit tanks. Dick was careful not to turn his head to stare-- they weren't there to sightsee-- but when he did happen to glance to the side he found himself looking right into the ghostly moon-gray eye of a shark. He gasped, and Batman immediately looked over his shoulder, his glare both a reprimand and a warning.

Appalled at himself for having done something wrong so early into the mission, Dick bit his lip and hurried after his mentor, sticking just a little closer to Batman's heels than before.

The lab, of course, was in the basement. They passed tanks of stranger and stranger specimens, including a number of luminescent jellyfish, which provided the only light in the downward-sloping corridor. Eventually, the ground turned to bare concrete, and when they reached a steel door, Batman gave a little nod. Robin turned around, standing guard. Batman knelt to disassemble and reprogram the door's cipher lock.

There were two or three soft clicks, the creak of hinges. An ominous black gap appeared between the door and its frame, and Batman and Robin slipped into it.

With a sound like a million angry flies, powerful bulbs suddenly painted everything white. Already hunched into defensive stances, the crime fighters shielded their eyes from the glare. Behind them, the door swung shut.

"Ah, Batman and Birdboy. At last."

"Milo," Batman identified.

"I knew you'd find me," the professor said. "I take it you're impressed with my latest project."

Blinking his still-stinging eyes, Robin took a quick look around the room. It was empty, save for green and brown stains on the concrete walls and floor, and a single cylindrical tank in the center of the room—in which the evil Doctor Milo stood, leering. He was wearing a white lab coat, and carrying a clipboard.

Robin grinned. "Look at that, Batman, he's trapped in there! We've got him!"

"The animal fights," Batman said to Milo in a low voice, completely ignoring Robin's exclamation of the obvious. "It started a few months ago. Dogfights, at first."

Milo nodded emphatically. "Mm-hmm. Isn't it enthralling, how people love to watch animals kill each other? I started with dogs, since the crowds were _used_ to that—but it wasn't long before I moved on to my _specialty_ fights. Those were the real moneymakers. Things people had never seen. Always to the death: Chimp versus pig. Cat versus raccoon. Even rabbit versus squirrel. And today…"

The teeth in Milo's smile suddenly looked sharp.

"…Bat versus _bird_."

"_Robin,_ get out of here," Batman half-yelled, not taking his eyes off Milo.

The boy jumped at the harshness of the order. "What--" he said reflexively, but a shout from Batman cut him off.

"NOW!"

Batman was scrambling at his belt for his gas mask. Robin spun, yellow cape flagging, and the quick motion made Batman twitch. Milo began to chuckle. "Oh, you _feel_ it, don't you?" Milo gushed. "You just want to _tear him apart_."

Batman's hands darted out and pressed against the glass that shielded Milo. The gas mask dropped to the floor, forgotten. "I'll tear _you_ and this entire lab apart _first_," he muttered, deadly serious.

On the other side of the room, Robin was beginning to feel a little woozy. He gulped. "Batman-- the door—it's stuck."

Batman's jaw clenched. He kept his eyes locked on the snickering professor, kept his voice calm. "Find… a way…to open it ," he commanded. "Then run."

"Don't you want to know where I got the idea?" Milo asked eagerly, stepping up to the glass so that he was only a few inches away from Batman's face. "It all started with _fighting fish_. You've heard of them, yes? They're _savage_ little things. Put two of them together, and they kill each other on instinct. Of course it's not that simple, but you get the point. Wouldn't it be wonderful, I thought, if that level of aggression, that instinct to _kill_, could be applied to other animals?"

Under the 'R' on his costume, Robin's heart was pounding. He felt sick. He felt furious. He couldn't open the door. Batman's orders were clear- open the door and run. Why wouldn't it open?

"I've never tried it on humans before," Milo was saying, a hungry shine in his eyes. "But I've no doubt it'll _work_. A few more seconds, and you won't be able to stop yourselves from killing each other! I can't wait to see how it affects the boy. In all my other trials, juvenile specimens always fought more _ruthlessly_ than mature ones. There's a chance it'll wear off rather quickly, in his case- but surely not before you manage to kill him."

"Robin," Batman said, his voice dark. "I'm not… going to move… from this spot." He took a few deep breaths, shoulders tensed, hands trembling against the glass. "You… have to… get…"

"_Raaagh!_" It was too late. Launching himself away from the door, Robin attacked. He leapt at Batman's back, his strong, thin arms clamping around the man's neck in a stranglehold.

Batman's reaction was instantaneous. He reached up, grabbed the boy by the back of his cape, and yanked him over his head. In a split second he had him pinned with his back against the professor's tank. Green gloves clawed at black gloves that closed crushingly tight around the boy's neck.

Robin made a horrible choking sound, which Batman silenced by slamming his entire body against the boy's. "Don't _fight!_" he said in a ragged whisper. "Don't fight- _don't fight_- you're making it worse!"

Behind them in the tank, the professor made a note on his clipboard. The boy had already braced his feet against the glass, knees bent, his little back arched like a bow, so not an ounce of his weight was helping Batman strangle him. "It's no use, Batman," Milo sneered. "He'll fight until he's dead."

"It's going to wear off," Batman hissed desperately. "Just have to… choke him out… make him stop fighting me—" This close, he could see Robin's eyes through the lenses of his mask. They were clenched shut, his face turning purple.

Milo chuckled. "Actually, Batman, what I should have said is that _you'll_ fight until he's dead. But, by all means, keep on believing that you'll be able to stop yourself!"

Somewhere, it registered that Milo might be right. Under the cowl, Bruce willed himself to redirect his aggression. He managed to do that by throwing the boy away from him, and, with an angry grunt, he struck out at the tank. The glass held, but Milo flinched.

Meanwhile, Robin twisted in the air, turning what started as a jumble of legs and elbows into a graceful rollout-landing. His cape flipped back over his shoulder as he sprang to his feet, wasting not one second before attacking again. Batman staggered as Robin kicked out one of his knees, but quickly caught the boy by the front of his tunic, hurling him across the room again-- and then immediately scoring another solid blow on the side of the tank. This time, a single white crack streaked the glass at the impact of his fist.

Eyes wide, Milo fumbled in the pocket of his lab coat. He jammed his finger onto a button, and a trapdoor in the floor of the tank opened up.

"_No!_" Batman growled as Milo disappeared. He turned just as Robin lunged at him yet again, intercepting the boy in mid air. Monkey-like, Robin clung to the arm that had caught him, and with a lightning-quick move, he managed to twist Batman's wrist.

"_Rrggh!_" Batman felt his wrist snap and saw red. And in that field of red, he saw the heel of a very green boot flying towards his throat. The kick connected in the next instant, knocking him backwards, but Batman managed to grab hold of Robin's leg on the way down.

They landed in a tangled heap, both struggling, Batman coughing and gagging from Robin's expertly-aimed kick. Injured now, and having taken the fight to the ground, Batman wasn't going to give up the advantage of his weight. He refused to let go of the boy, and almost had him pinned, when suddenly Robin rolled, nearly getting free—

Batman saw an opportunity to stop his escape and acted on it, driving his uninjured knee into the boy's solar plexus. Stunned, the boy flopped awkwardly onto his back, his skull knocking against the concrete floor. Tiny lights swirled in Dick's vision, and he began to feel a sort of haze lifting from his mind. Incredibly, he rallied his strength and tried to get up—only to have his head slammed back to the ground. There was a rushing sound in his ears, and he felt something hot in his blood quickly being replaced by ice cold terror. He couldn't move. He tried to anyway.

"_Hold still, Dick_," said a horrible voice in his ear. "_I'm sorry-- I won't—just don't fight_." Dick tried to breathe but couldn't do that either. His hands came up, found something to push against, something immovable. "_Just stay still_."

"Batman. I—can't breathe."

"_Shh_."

Suddenly there was pressure on the sides of his neck. Dick knew he shouldn't panic. Not to panic was the first step, the first lesson. Don't panic.

But when the pressure on his neck increased, he panicked anyway. He thrashed, and twisted, and managed to get one knee up, underneath his captor- and with a move that should have been impossible, he rolled himself free of the pin, sending Batman sprawling to the floor in the process.

Instantly on his feet, Robin's situation became clear. He had to get out- he had to _run_. He turned to the door, his hand reaching for the laser pen on his belt. He could cut through the lock- why hadn't he thought of it before? He made it to the door and stabbed the hissing blade of the pen into the bolt, and then ducked instinctively—just in time to avoid the crash of Batman's fist into the place where his head had just been.

Robin looked up, more scared than he'd ever been in his life. He was trapped. And now Batman was grabbing him by the back of his collar, dragging him up face-first against the door. But he still had the laser pen in his hand, searing through the bolt millimeter by millimeter.

Robin looked back over his shoulder. Batman already had his fist drawn back. "_Don't,_" Dick whispered, wincing, and in the split-second of hesitation that bought him, he felt the bolt give way.

He didn't pause to think about it. It was all pure instinct. He braced his hands against the door, kicked backwards with one leg. Batman avoided the kick, but had to change his grip—and suddenly Robin was moving straight _up_. He hooked his fingertips over the half-inch-wide ledge of the doorframe over his head, and stepped down forcefully on the door handle. This caused the door to fly open, hitting Batman square in the face. Dick should have still been between Batman and the door at that point, but he wasn't: he'd swung himself out of the way, and was currently upside-down above the door, fingers on the doorframe's ledge and feet against the ceiling. And as soon as the door was all the way open, he swung down and through it, and hit the ground at a sprint, heading up the long hallway past all the glowing jellyfish.

But he hadn't made it thirty feet before he heard the _spfft_ of a grappling gun being fired behind him, and two steps later he felt the wire coil around his ankle and tighten. With his feet yanked out from under him, he hit the ground hard, and immediately felt the retractor start pulling him backwards. "Let me _go!_" he cried out, his arms and legs scraping against the concrete.

"I just have to _stop you from fighting me_," Batman growled, voice like a demon.

"But I'm _not_ fighting you! I'm running away! Like you told me to!"

Batman was in the hallway now, a black, bat-eared silhouette stalking towards him, the distance closing step by heavy step. "I want you to _stop moving_."

Dick's eyes filled with tears. When he spoke his voice sounded far away, unreal, something from a nightmare and nothing more. "_You're going to kill me_."

"…No," Batman said, with a trace of confusion in his tone. He took another step forward. "No…"

Dick felt the grappling line go loose and scrambled frantically to kick it away. "Batman, you aren't yourself," he said, raising his voice. "Dr. Milo did something to us. That's why we were fighting. That's why you have to let me go!"

Batman was still moving towards him, much too slowly, as if trying not to scare him away. Robin looked around, desperate for anything that might help him escape. That's when he noticed for the first time that the jellyfish tanks weren't separate tanks at all, but rather one large tank with multiple windows. Which meant that if one of the lower windows, one of the windows closer to Batman, was broken, the entire tank would drain out through it.

Robin had only one exploding Batarang. Without a second thought, he flung it at the window just in front of Batman, and curled into a ball on his side, his hands over his ears.

The knife-like edge of the batarang embedded itself in the glass. Batman looked at it, startled. The glowing circle in the center of it blinked and beeped.

And then it exploded.

In the resulting avalanche of water, Batman was swept away, back towards the room they had just left. And Robin, feeling nauseous, staggered to his feet and escaped up the hallway.

* * *

As soon as he made it outside, he was physically sick. He tried to run, but his legs were shaking so badly he could barely stand up. He made it a few blocks from the aquarium, when suddenly he realized that he didn't know what to do.

He thought of Alfred. He'd be safe with Alfred, wouldn't he? Maybe not-- if Bruce really was going to kill him, would Alfred be able to stop him? Dick wasn't sure. He decided, perhaps rashly, that he couldn't go back to Wayne Manor. Better to stay away from anywhere that Bruce would go. Until… until… Dick scrunched his eyes shut and shook his head. He couldn't _think!_

The wind howled, despairing, and the winter night unleashed the snowstorm that had been brewing over Gotham City all week. Huddled against the brick exterior of an old apartment building, Dick wrapped his cape around himself as best he could. Before long, though, his skin was red and stinging from the severe cold, and it became apparent even to his half-delirious mind that what he needed to do first and foremost was to simply get himself indoors.

The outside of the apartment building couldn't offer him any shelter from the wind and snow, but at least it had old fashioned and easy-to-climb fire escapes. Dick hauled himself up, checking windows until he found one that was unlocked.

The apartment was dark and smelled vaguely of garbage. Robin noticed three bulging trash bags stacked up by the front door and reasoned that was the cause. There were piles of clothes on the floor, piles of dishes in the sink and on the coffee table, piles of newspapers and manila envelopes and donut and pizza boxes everywhere. But none of that mattered. What was important to Robin at that moment was only that the place was warm and dry and Batman had no idea he was there. What the boy wonder failed to notice, before clearing off a space for himself on the sour-smelling couch in the living room, was the badge on the pocket of the trench coat hung by the door.

Dick curled up as small as he could on the sagging old couch, pulled a dingy old afghan over his head, and shut his eyes.

* * *

When Detective Harvey Bullock came home a few hours later, after having spent the entire freezing night out on a homicide case, he'd already eaten most of his dinner/breakfast in the car and on the stairs on the way up. Outside his front door, he stuffed the entire final slice of pizza into his mouth and shoved his greasy fingers into his pockets, groping for his keys. Unlocking his front door, he shuffled through it, and tossed the now empty-pizza box onto a pile of other pizza boxes.

"Thank god for 24-hour pizza," he muttered, his mouth still full of pepperoni and sausage. Chewing noisily, he hung his snow-covered hat and trench coat up by the door by his other trench coats, retrieved a can of pop from his fridge, and waded his way into his living room. Grumbling obscenities, he searched through several piles of random items before finding the remote, and when he finally found it, he turned on his television and sank onto his couch.

He leaned sideways, resting his elbow on what was supposed to be a pile of laundry.

Only it _moved_ and said "uh."

"_GYAH!_"

Bullock had never done anything so fast in his life. Instantly he was on his feet, the revolver he was still carrying aimed at the pile on the couch, and steady in his hand despite the fact that he was pretty sure he had just suffered a miniature heart attack.

When a moment passed, and nothing jumped out of the pile, Bullock realized he still had a mouthful of pizza. His eyes slid side to side in suspicion as he chewed and swallowed, the aim of his gun never wavering. Once the pizza was gone, he licked his lips, and, switching to a one-handed grip on his weapon, he leaned down and grabbed the corner of the blanket that was covering whatever it was on his couch.

Bullock pulled the blanket away with one swift tug.

And there was Robin, yellow cape, red shirt, green peter-pan booties and all, fast asleep on Harvey Bullock's couch.

"_Kid?!_" the detective exclaimed in shock.

The kid didn't stir. Bullock aimed his gun at the nearest dark corner. "All right, what is this? Where the hell are ya, Bats?" He stepped backwards, narrowly avoiding tripping over several piles of his personal belongings, and reached for the light switch on the wall.

He flipped the lights on— revealing, to his honest surprise, no sign of the Dark Knight.

"Very funny, Bat-for-brains," Bullock said loudly, following the sights of his gun into his darkened bedroom. "I don't know what your game is, but I know I don't like it. What's he doin' here? This some kinda set up? You expectin' me ta babysit for ya?" He flipped the light switch in the bedroom, only to find himself aiming at his own reflection in the mirror above his dresser. Frustrated, Bullock lowered his gun.

Bullock searched his apartment three times. He even went up to check the roof. At last he had to admit, if Batman was around, he wasn't going to find him. Rubbing the two-days-old stubble on his chin, Bullock returned to his living room. The kid on his couch hadn't moved. But then he saw the boy shiver, and noticed that his dark hair was wet, and his face under his mask was bright pink. Bullock reached down and felt the boy's forehead, and his angry eyes flooded with worry, which made the blue-gray circles beneath them stand out even more. "Kid, you're burning up," he said, softer and more serious than he'd said anything in a long time. He pulled back his hand, considering. His eyes moved, slowly, to the phone on his wall.

Call the commissioner. That was his first instinct. Bullock didn't know anything about kids. And _this_ kid, especially, was not one that Bullock wanted to have anything to do with. This was _Batman's_ kid. Or something.

That did it. Bullock went over to the phone and picked it up to dial. But then he stopped, and looked back at the kid. He was getting that weird feeling he got sometimes, that bit of a sixth sense that made him a truly gifted detective once in a while, and it was telling him _not_ to call Gordon. What if the kid was in serious trouble? Gordon would probably tie him up with pink bow on his head (not that his costume wasn't ridiculous enough already) and ship him right back to the Bat. Bullock tried to convince himself that it wasn't his problem. But he couldn't. He hung the phone back in its cradle.

"I'll wait til he wakes up," Bullock decided aloud. "Then, if he don't need my help, I'll send him home to his Uncle Jim and Uncle Jim can feed him to the bat, and see if I give a flip."

Bullock pulled open his kitchen cabinets until a bag of potato chips fell out of one of them. Leaving the cupboard open, Bullock trudged back to the couch and sat down again, popping open the soda can he'd abandoned there earlier. He propped his feet up on the coffee table, turned the channel until something watchable came up, and opened the bag of chips with his teeth.

He glanced over at the kid, worry written all over his unshaven face.

And he didn't think twice about losing another night of sleep.

...to be continued...

* * *

_Another note: "A Bullet for Bullock" is the episode which establishes that Harvey Bullock lives like a slob. It's also one of my favorite episodes, because I really like Bullock. Grin. _


	3. unequivocal refuge

_Author's note: First of all, to all you anonymous/not-signed-in reviewers, thank you! (and to all you signed-in reviewers, hopefully the new PM review reply thing is working!) Fair warning: there's a lot of Harvey Bullock in this chapter. My apologies to those of you who may not be so fond of "the detective who looks like an unmade bed," as Alfred so aptly described him. After this chapter, we see more of Gordon and Batman and get back to the action._

_Anyway-- I meant to post this chapter in time for Mother's Day, but I got caught up with some other projects. Hopefully you all remembered to call your mothers!

* * *

_

Chapter three: unequivocal refuge

Finally it was 6:00am. She'd be awake by now. Taking a deep breath, Bullock lifted the phone off his kitchen wall, and dialed the number.

"…Hey ma. It's Harvey."

The phone warbled, and Bullock scrunched up his face in a scowl. "Yeah, '_that_' Harvey. You got any _other _Harveys call you 'ma'?"

The beleaguered detective shuffled across the kitchen, yanking open his fridge as the phone chattered at his ear. "eh, I'm doin' all right," he said noncommittally after a moment. "How're things in the 'haven?" Bending down slightly and still holding the fridge door open, Bullock squashed the phone into his shoulder and reached for a jug of milk at the back of the fridge. "Yeah, it's snowing here too," he remarked, straightening up again with the milk jug in hand. "Hey listen, ma, I'm kinda in need of some motherly advice."

The phone immediately erupted into a long, high-pitched rant. Wincing, Bullock turned to place the milk on the counter, unwittingly wrapping himself in the long phone cord in the process. Next he retrieved a box of cereal from a cupboard, and rummaged in a drawer for a spoon. The tirade from the phone continued as Bullock, with mounting frustration, went to reclaim a bowl from the dirty dishwater in the sink and discovered that he had stretched the phone cord to its limit and was in imminent danger of pulling the phone right off the wall.

Like a block of concrete, Bullock took up a squared-off stance right in the middle of his kitchen, still tangled up in the phone cord. "_Jeez_, ma, enough already!" he exclaimed at last. "We've been over all that a thousand times! I _ain't_ quitting my job, I _ain't_ movin' outta my lousy apartment, I _ain't _getting' _married_ and I _ain't_ gonna lose weight. Now you gonna hear me out or what?"

With narrowed eyes and a grumpy frown, he waited for a response. When he got one, he sighed, and glanced out into his living room. "See, I've got this kid—"

The phone erupted again, squawking so loudly it was practically vibrating.

"Of course it ain't _my _kid!" Bullock shouted into the receiver. "--It's just some kid that, uh, that might be involved with a case I'm working. Yeah. The thing is, I think he's sick…"

* * *

About half an hour later, armed with a freshly acquired wealth of knowledge on how to treat fevers in children, and with plenty of apprehension evident on his grungy face, Bullock reached for Robin's shoulder.

"Hey, kid. Time to wake up." He shook the boy's shoulder, but Robin didn't stir. Bullock cleared his throat, and shook Robin's shoulder a little harder. "Kid. Let's go. Wake up."

Bullock frowned at the unconscious boy, who was still curled up in a ball on the couch. For the past four hours, he'd barely moved at all.

Acting on a sudden whim that he seemed annoyed at himself for not thinking of sooner, Bullock reached for Robin's mask, and attempted to pry his finger under the edge of it.

The kid's reaction was instantaneous. "_No!_" he gasped, both hands coming up to hold his mask in place.

"_oof!_" In the next split second, a blind, instinctive kick stabbed Bullock in the stomach, and he keeled over in pain. Robin, meanwhile, had scrambled to his feet, and was standing up on the back of the couch, poised for a fight. Bullock forced himself to suck in a breath, and held up his hands in a 'calm down' gesture. "_Easy_, kid, easy! I ain't gonna hurt ya."

"Buh… Detective Bullock," the boy said, his voice little more than a whisper.

"That's me," Bullock said, nodding. "Now, you wanna come down from there?"

The boy looked perplexed, and took a quick glance around the room. He was only standing on the back of the three-foot-high couch. It hadn't occurred to him that he was 'up' high enough to warrant 'coming down.' Bullock was standing a few feet away, tensed, hands raised towards him and face strained as if he were imploring someone not to jump off a bridge.

Suddenly Robin looked startled, like it had just dawned on him that normal people didn't consider pieces of furniture, railings, light fixtures and so forth to be interchangeable with the _floor_. But before he could make a conscious decision to start using various surfaces for their intended purposes, he blacked out. His skinny little legs collapsed beneath him, and Bullock just barely managed to catch him before his head smashed into the coffee table.

"Whoa! Kid!" Bullock exclaimed, completely at a loss for what to do with his armful of yellow-caped boy wonder. Eventually he decided to put him back down on the couch, laying him flat on his back this time.

The boy looked decidedly worse than before. Bullock had to wake him up, get him to drink some water. Once he explained everything, he was sure the kid would settle down.

Robin stirred, turning his head, and Bullock instinctively reached towards him, thinking that maybe if he just prevented him from jumping around, he could tell the kid what was going on. As his hand approached the yellow collar of the boy's cape, however, Bullock noticed something he hadn't before.

Bullock's heart ignited. Bruises on kids were the worst. Some lowlife had obviously tried to choke this boy, bruising his neck in the process, and in that moment Bullock wanted nothing more than to make that lowlife pay—even if it had been, as Bullock strongly suspected, _Batman_ himself.

Robin stirred again and Bullock changed tactics. He retreated across the room, so as not to crowd the boy, and squatted down, hoping to appear as non-threatening as possible. "Wake up, kid." It might have been Bullock's imagination, but it seemed like the white mask-lenses brightened a bit as the eyes behind them opened. "Kid? Can you hear me?"

Grave-faced, Robin nodded.

"Just stay where you are, okay?"

The kid looked around, slowly. "This is…" he whispered, swallowing. "Where you live?"

Bullock held up his hands again, cautious. "Yeah. This is where I live. You showed up here last night. You wanna tell me what happened?"

The kid's face stiffened with the expression that was the universal precursor to crying. "No," he said in a broken voice. "I…have to leave."

"No you don't, son, you can stay right there," Bullock offered urgently. "Nobody's comin' for ya."

Robin's forehead creased. "You didn't…call…Commissioner…"

"I didn't call nobody." He grinned. "'cept my _mother_. She said I gotta make you drink lots of water. There's a glass for ya on the table."

The boy looked at the glass, and then back at Bullock.

Bullock's eyes went wide. "Aw, jeez, kid, I ain't gonna poison ya!"

Robin rolled onto his side and reached for the glass. It wobbled in his hand, some of the water spilling out.

"There you go," Bullock encouraged as the boy managed to take a sip.

That one sip of water seemed to bring Robin's world back into focus, and he lowered the glass until it rested against the couch cushion. "But… why are you helping me?"

Everything about the detective's answer implied that that had been the stupidest question he'd ever been asked. "Because I think you need _help_, that's why."

Robin was staring down into the glass of water. "…I thought you hated me."

Bullock looked flat-out offended. "What made ya think that? _You_ ain't done nothin'. I just don't like your pointy-eared _dad_."

"He's n—" Robin began, but then pursed his lips, realizing that he'd already said too much. Whether or not he was really _related_ to Batman was supposed to stay part of the mystery. No one was supposed to know for sure. But now… Robin took a quick breath, and looked up at the man who now knew part of the secret. What had he done?

There was a horrible burden of guilt all over the boy's face, and Harvey Bullock couldn't stand to see it stay there for another second.

"Relax, I didn't even hear ya," the detective shrugged. "Can't take nothin' you say seriously anyhow, on account of your fever and all."

Bullock was surprised at himself. He'd reacted without thinking, and had taken the sting out of the boy's mistake, offering him immediate, unequivocal refuge from his own failure. But what surprised the detective even more was the fact that the boy seemed to understand and _accept_ what had just been given to him, without even thinking about possible strings attached.

Suddenly Bullock realized something, and in that moment it felt like the most terrifying and uplifting revelation of his life: 

_Oh my God. This kid trusts me._

The detective straightened, and reached for his trench coat and hat. "Take small sips," he instructed. "Corner store should be open now- I'm gonna run out and get a few things. You stay put and drink all that water, capiche? I'll be right back."

The door creaked, complaining as Bullock hurriedly pulled it shut behind himself. Ordinarily, the detective's pessimistic nature would've had him put money on the kid flying out the window within minutes, but Bullock's finicky sixth sense was acting up again, and because of it he felt confident that the boy would still be there when he returned.

And sure enough, back inside the apartment, Robin didn't even think about leaving. He just closed his eyes and focused on the water. He had to hold the glass with both hands to keep it steady. Small sips.

By the time he finally got around to wondering what he was supposed to do next, the water was gone.

What had happened to Batman?

Robin looked out the window, saw nothing but swirling snowflakes against a backdrop of white. He imagined a black shape materializing in that field of white, swinging towards him, and shivered.

* * *

When Bullock returned, the boy was curled up in a ball again, wrapped in that ratty afghan, indistinguishable from the piles of laundry except for his dark-haired head.

"You okay?" Bullock asked, still slightly out of breath from coming up the stairs.

Robin nodded, and Bullock moved into the kitchen with his bag of groceries. "Got you some ginger ale," Bullock announced. "An' some Tylenol, crackers and soup, and a pair of socks-- ma said no matter what, I have to keep your feet warm-- Oh, and some kind of sports drink. Ma said I should water it down for ya. Somthin' bout electrolytes."

Over on the couch, Robin tried to make sense of this. Detective Bullock had gone shopping… for _him_?

"One more thing," Bullock said, pulling his final purchase out of the bag.

It was a Gotham Knights sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, probably a little big for Robin, but definitely about ten sizes too small for Bullock. "Got you some _clothes_," Bullock grumbled. "Since I don't think any of mine would fit ya."

"Clothes?" Robin asked, confused.

"_Yeah_, clothes! _Normal_ people wear them, instead of _capes_ and masks and whatever the heck those green undies of yours are supposed to be. I figure if you're gonna be _hiding out_ , you might want to ditch the costume."

Bullock dropped the sweats over the arm of the couch, and found himself fixed in an unbelievably soulful gaze.

"Thank you," the boy said, solemn.

Bullock looked peeved. "Hey, it's no big deal, okay? It ain't like I'm giving my _life _for ya or nothin'," he sputtered. "They were on sale and everything."

Robin tried to smile, but seemed to lack the strength for it.

"So, you think you can handle another glass of water? Maybe some of this sports drink stuff?"

"Sure," Robin said, carefully sitting up.

His hands were steadier with the second glass, and when it was gone, he closed his eyes and looked a little better.

"Need anything else? You hungry at all?" Bullock asked tersely, trying not to hover.

"No…" he was already drifting off. "Just… want to sleep… little more."

"That's alright, kid, that's good." Bullock looked around, and absently wiped his hands on his pockets. "I'll get ya another blanket." Wading over to the hall closet, Bullock pulled a blanket off the top shelf and carried it back to the couch.

Robin was already fast asleep. "Poor kid," Bullock muttered, draping the blanket over his scrawny little body. "You just sleep as much as you need." He looked around again, at a loss, and happened to notice a roach skittering across one of the walls.

"… Guess I _could _clean the place up a bit," Bullock grumbled to himself.

...to be continued!...


	4. with a friend

_Author's note: aah! I just realized, I haven't replied to reviews from chapter three yet! Sorry about that-- I will correct that first thing tomorrow! I was on vacation for most of the past week, that's why... but I know there's no excuse! _

* * *

Chapter four: with a friend

By the time his young guest woke up again, Bullock had taken out the trash, done the dishes, and corralled most of his laundry into one centralized heap.

Resisting the urge to bombard the kid with questions, Bullock only asked the now-awake Robin again if he was hungry. After a thoughtful pause, the boy nodded, and Bullock used one of his freshly-washed pots to heat up some chicken noodle soup. It was still too early for lunch, but once the soup was hot Bullock poured it into two bowls, tucked a sleeve of crackers under his arm, and joined Robin in the living room.

"Here ya go, son," Bullock said, passing Robin one of the bowls.

"Thank you."

The detective sighed as he sat down next to the boy on the couch, his own soup bowl in hand. For a while they ate without speaking, Bullock glancing over at the kid every now and then, wondering what he was mulling over in his little head. At last the boy wonder looked up at Bullock. Took a hesitant breath.

"What? You need something?" Bullock asked.

"…I need to make a phone call," Robin spoke up awkwardly.

Bullock tossed his thumb over his shoulder. "Phone's in the kitchen."

Robin's forehead creased. "I was thinking I ought to use a pay phone. To be safe. One that's not… not near here."

Bullock finished his soup in one last gulp right out of the bowl, looking down at Robin out of the corner of his eye. Then he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "All right," he said, standing up again. "Here's the plan. Laundromat's on the first floor. I'm headin' down there to start a few loads. You finish your soup and crackers and get yourself cleaned up. Then I'll drive you over to the bus station and you can make your call from there."

Robin realized right away what a good idea that was. His expression brightened.

* * *

"Wayne Manor." Alfred answered the phone as he always did, nothing in his tone indicating that he was utterly exhausted. Sometimes, he was the best actor of them all.

The boy in the pay phone booth at the Sprang Street bus station grinned broadly beneath the hood of his new Gotham Knights sweatshirt. He was still wearing his mask, of course, and his boots—the baggy sweatpants covered his heels, though, so they looked more like green slippers. Perhaps a bit odd, but not odd enough to attract any attention from the bus station crowd. Many of the homeless people gathered there were dressed in much stranger apparel, after all.

"Alfred, it's me."

The old butler grasped the phone with both hands, and everything he had been keeping out of his voice overflowed in a relieved whisper. "Richard-- thank God!"

Dick's grin faltered and fell. Something was wrong. "Is Bruce--"

"Are you _all right_, lad? You haven't been left out in the _snow_, have you?"

There was a sort of desperate worry in his voice, an _urgency_ that Dick couldn't ignore.

"No-- I'm fine. I'm… with a friend."

"When Master Bruce came home without you, I feared the worst. He's been dreadfully ill, incoherent--I've just gotten him to bed."

Dick bit his lip as he heard Bruce's dark voice in the background.

"Alfred. Is that _him?_"

Alfred looked up, startled. "You aren't well, sir. Go back to bed this instant."

"Give me the phone."

Instead, Alfred drew it closer to his mouth. "Don't come home yet, Master Dick. The sedative isn't--"

"_Where is he_, Alfred? Give me the phone!"

"He's with a friend, sir, that's all he's said and that's all you need know—"

The boy winced as the sounds of a scuffle reached his ear, abruptly ended by a loud crash. All was silent, and then suddenly the phone was full of a low growl.

Batman's voice pressed into Dick's ear, heavy with malice. "_Where are you?_"

Dick hung up the phone, his heart racing.

* * *

Bullock was waiting for him in the car, chewing on a toothpick. "How'd it go?" the detective asked as the boy slumped into the passenger seat. Not that he needed the kid to answer. The boy's body language spelled it out pretty plain.

The kid sat for a minute, quiet, and Bullock began to feel a little annoyed at his unresponsiveness. "Ehh," Bullock grumbled, a clear tone of 'forget this' in his inflection. He pulled away from the curb and began to drive home.

A few blocks later, Robin turned and looked up at him. "I'm in trouble," he admitted, with impressive composure. "Pretty bad."

"Oh yeah?" Bullock asked, glad that the kid had opened up but unable to eliminate the annoyance in his tone. "Lemme guess. _Bat_ trouble?"

Robin hesitated, then nodded.

Bullock sighed. "Look, kid, I'll help you if I can. But I'm already late for work. Not too worried about it, since I was out about six hours after my shift last night, but, I gotta report in sometime."

"Can I…" the boy took a breath, his question fizzling out.

Bullock glanced sideways at him. "Can you what?" he prompted. "Can you go to work with me? No freakin' way. Hope that don't break your heart or nothin'."

Robin smiled a little. "I was gonna ask if I could stay at your place. Just for today." He sounded ashamed of himself for asking.

The car pulled up alongside the curb in front of Bullock's apartment. The detective shifted to park and killed the engine. "You can stay as long as you need to," he said, inwardly bewildered by his own hospitality. "Just don't answer the door, don't answer the phone, and don't order none of them pay-per-view movies."

* * *

The commissioner's coffee pot was on the fritz, so when he needed a fresh cup, he made his way down the hall. Internal Affairs always had a full pot. He got one or two incredulous glances as he filled his mug, which made him wonder if the reason the pot was always full might have been because no one ever actually _drank_ any of it. Nodding hello and goodbye to the Internal Affairs people, he headed back to his desk, mug pressed to his lips and coffee already disappearing beneath his mustache.

It was piping hot and tasted like dirt, which by cop standards meant it was excellent.

As soon as Gordon got back to his office, he noticed that his window was open—and it had definitely been _closed_ when he'd left, considering the icy wind outside. He heard his door creak shut behind him and spun on his heel, miraculously not spilling his coffee in the process.

Batman's gloved hand remained on the door for a second, fingers splayed, his arm a stark protrusion from the rest of his solid black form.

"Oh, it's you," the commissioner said, trying unsuccessfully to quell his surprise.

Batman's arm fell from the door, its shape vanishing into the black hulk of his cape.

Gordon moved towards his desk, sipping his coffee and not quite taking his eyes off his visitor. Batman followed him across the room, his steps slow and cumbersome, as though he were dragging a heavy weight.

Gordon looked up at the clock on the wall, and then back at the Bat. "Noon," he remarked, amicable and business-like. The sides of his eyes crinkled in what might have been suspicion, or just an attempt at a smile. "I've never seen you in _daylight_ before."

The dark knight hunched his shoulders and _froze_, as though he were about to pounce. "_Where is he?_"

Gordon's blood went cold at the rasp of his voice. "Where's _who?_"

"_Robin._"

The commissioner felt his heart plummet into his shoes. He met the Batman's blank eyeholes with a steady gaze. "…I think you better tell me what happened."

Instead, Batman slid his foot forward. A step.

A very threatening step.

Gordon held his ground. "I haven't seen your young partner since he spoke with me here a few days ago."

"I _told him_ he could _go to you_," Batman muttered. "There's nowhere else he'd be."

"I'm telling you, I haven't seen him."

The Bat took another step, and raised his hands from his sides—clenched into fists. "_I want him back_."

Gordon set his coffee mug down on his desk with the authority of a judge dropping his gavel. "Batman, _I _don't have him. But if the boy is missing, then I swear I will help—"

"_Give him back!_" Batman shouted, loud enough to attract the attention of a certain hard-bitten and decidedly unkempt detective out in the hall.

Harvey Bullock had just dragged himself to work, only four hours late. He was on his way to report in to the commissioner when he heard Batman's growly shout through the door, and within seconds he'd thrown himself, gun-first, into Gordon's office.

Batman glared into the barrel of the firearm now aimed at his head, his eye a tiny white slit over his shoulder.

"Back away from the commissioner, Bats," Bullock ordered. "Nice and easy now."

"It's all right, Bullock," Gordon insisted, terse.

"With all due respect, it ain't _all right_ 'til the freak does what I say. And I said _move back_."

Bullock didn't even see him throw the batarang. All he saw was a blur of black, diving towards the window, and when he pulled the trigger the gun blew up in his hand.

He swore, dropping his ruined piece, and rushed to the window. He was just in time to see the scalloped edge of the cape disappear around the corner of the building.

The commissioner got to his feet from where he'd instinctively taken cover behind his desk. "_Bullock are you insane?_" he hollered, as if it were all one word.

A trio of breathless police officers piled through the doorway then, guns drawn. "Commissioner!" one of them exclaimed. "We heard a shot--"

"Get out," Gordon barked at the three of them, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Detective Bullock _accidentally_ discharged his weapon and will be writing a statement."

One of the cops glanced down at the smoking pistol on the floor, and blinked a few times as he tried in vain to identify the sleek black metal shape sticking out of it. "…Are you sure you—"

"You rookies _deaf _as well as retarded?" Bullock demanded, in his usual offended-sounding voice. "The commish just told you to take a hike. So _take _one."

Still unsure, the three cops exchanged glances, and then holstered their weapons.

"Go on, beat it," Bullock grunted, shooing them out. Stomping across the room, he slammed the door in their faces, and then turned to the commissioner.

Gordon was standing behind his desk, head bowed and shoulders slumped. The hand that had been rubbing the spot where his glasses sat was motionless now, covering his face.

Bullock's expression shifted from aggravation to concern. "…Jim?" he asked hesitantly. "What is it?"

"It's the _kid_, Bullock. I think Batman's _lost_ him."

There was a weight of _dread_ in his voice, as if he'd just lost a child of his own. "That why he came here?" Bullock asked. "Lookin' for him?"

Gordon nodded, and sank into his seat, leaning over his desk. "He thought _I_ knew where he was." He took a sharp breath, and folded his hands around his coffee mug. "God, Bullock, if that boy's--"

Bullock came around the desk, and clamped one of his big hands down on his boss's shoulder. "Don't you worry. I bet he's just fine, commish. Layin' low or somethin'. He seemed like a pretty smart kid. He can probably take care of himself."

Gordon looked up, and felt a little bit comforted by the detective's earnest expression.

But he was still so shaken that he couldn't even say that he hoped Bullock was right.

* * *

Robin was practicing a one-handed handstand on top of the television set when Bullock got home.

"Jeez, kid, you're gonna break your neck!" the detective scolded right away, hanging up his coat and hat.

"No I'm not," Robin answered brightly. He tucked his knees to his chest and launched himself into the air, landing on his feet on the floor with a great big grin.

"What, you want me to _clap _or somethin'?" the detective demanded in a caustic voice. Robin's face fell, and Bullock shuffled into the kitchen. "Whatever. Least you seem to be feelin' better."

Robin crept towards the kitchen, putting his hands in the pouch of his sweatshirt. "…Did you… have a good day at work?" he asked carefully, as if he wasn't sure whether if he was even allowed to speak.

"Do I ever?" Bullock replied rudely, stooped over and rummaging in his refrigerator. When he emerged, he was gnawing on a fried turkey leg. He noticed the boy's hurt expression, and sighed. "Ehh. Guess it wasn't so bad," he admitted with a shrug. "Had to do some paperwork for a little 'accident' I had. You want some of this?" he held out the turkey leg to Robin, who declined with a shake of his head. Bullock put the turkey leg back in his mouth, and began systematically opening all his cupboards, in search of a bag of nachos. "…Took a shot at our favorite dark knight."

"You _shot _at him?" Robin asked, going pale.

"Don't worry, I missed," Bullock assured him with a roll of his eyes. He found the bag he was looking for, and made his way to the couch. "He showed up in broad daylight and started harassing the commissioner. The funny thing is, he was looking for _you_. Thought you might've gone to Jim Gordon for help. Lucky you found me instead, huh kid?"

The boy didn't answer. He was biting his lip, his masked eyes hidden beneath the shadow of the sweatshirt's hood.

Bullock swallowed a chunk of fried turkey. "Look, son, at some point you're gonna have to tell me what happened. I said I would help you, but it's kinda hard to do that when I'm being kept in the dark."

Robin sat down on the couch next to the noisily chewing detective, and took a deep breath. "…it was Dr. Milo," he said at last. "He has a chemical that makes animals want to kill each other. He…_used it_ on me and Batman somehow, and we got into a fight… but I got away, and got really sick, and I think it's pretty much worn off. Of me, I mean. But I'm afr—" he stopped himself, took another breath, and continued. "I think maybe it _hasn't_ worn off of Batman yet. And if it doesn't wear off…" the boy steeled his nerves, and managed to keep his voice matter-of-fact: "…he'll kill me."

The rumpled detective paused for a minute, considering all that information and the brave little boy who'd told it to him. "So," he asked point-blank. "What's your plan?"

Robin looked up at Bullock, surprised that the detective had asked him that, but ready to answer. "I'm going to find the antidote." He knit his brows in determination. "And that means that _first_, I'll have to find Dr. Milo."

Bullock could barely keep himself from grinning. Somehow, he'd _known_ that Robin had already come up with some kind of plan, and he was pleased that the boy hadn't balked at the question. But he was even _more_ pleased that the kid was obviously surprised to have been asked, because it proved that he didn't have the ego to _expect _Bullock to assume he was that _capable_. And, although he'd never confess it aloud, that made Bullock feel just a little bit _fond_ of the kid—and maybe even sort of _proud_ of him for some reason.

He made his voice extra gruff to counteract any _friendliness_ that might've tried to seep into his tone. "So you think it's gonna be that _easy_, huh? We just find Dr. Milo and go through his secret lab 'til we find a bottle that says 'antidote' on it in big red letters?"

"Well, I hope so." The boy looked worried. And then suddenly he did a double-take. "Wait a minute—'_we_'?"

That was the exact reaction Bullock had anticipated. He pretended to take offense. "Yeah, _we_. As in you an' me. You didn't think I'd let you go out there by _yourself_, did you?"

"But you'll just sl--" yet again, Robin caught himself, shutting down his protest mid-sentence. And rather than feeling insulted by what the boy had been about to say, Bullock felt kind of _touched _that the boy had stopped himself from going through with saying it. Not that he'd ever _admit _that to anyone.

"Hey hey _hey,_" Bullock said, scowling. "Just 'cause I can't do cartwheels on a tightrope like a flippin' _monkey_ don't mean I can't keep up. An' I was doing this stuff when you were in diapers, so you can take my word for it: it ain't gonna be as simple as you think. These psycho _scientist_ types ain't on the same page as normal people. You do this alone, you'll be in way over your little head."

One final bite reduced the turkey leg to a mere bone, and Bullock stood up to carry it over to the trash. "Now, first things first," he grumbled, not giving Robin a chance to argue. "I didn't get any sleep last night on account of you showing up here half-dead. So I'm gonna need a few hours of shut-eye before we get started, okay?"

Robin didn't look completely convinced, but he nodded. "Okay."

Dropping the turkey bone in the trash, Bullock headed towards his bedroom. Robin noticed that the bag of nachos was still in his hand. "You're not going to eat those in _bed_, are you?" he asked, too curious to stop himself.

"Yeah, I am," Bullock declared. "And if you have a problem with that, too bad." He slammed the bedroom door shut behind himself. "And one more thing," he said, his voice carrying easily through the door. "Keep the volume down if you watch TV!"

"Yes sir," Robin acknowledged, loud enough to be heard.

The voice from behind the door sounded completely disgusted. "An' don't call me 'sir'!"

Robin couldn't help but smile. "Okay," he answered. He still didn't know for sure whether or not Harvey Bullock hated his guts, but he was definitely grateful for all the man had done for him. And he was starting to suspect that maybe he hadn't stretched the truth too much when he'd told Alfred that he was with a _friend_.

But that didn't change the fact that he had to help _Batman_, and Bullock's feelings towards Batman were no secret. Bullock had even tried to _shoot _him!

With his determination boiling over, Robin made a fist and crashed it into the palm of his other hand, absently clutching it as he pondered his course of action. There was no doubt in his mind now—he had to find Dr. Milo… _without _Detective Bullock's help.

...to be continued!...


	5. in a haystack

Chapter five: in a haystack

Harvey Bullock _was_ tired, but not exhausted: he'd been given a pile of paperwork to complete for 'accidentally' discharging his firearm in Gordon's office, but he'd dumped that pile on the desk of an unsuspecting rookie (under the pretense that filling it out would be 'good practice' for him), and had then promptly snuck off to take a five-hour nap. As a result, he was feeling more than ready for the task of tailing the boy wonder through the city.

Secluded in his bedroom, Bullock didn't even take his shoes off. He sat on the edge of his bed, opened the bag of nachos, and began munching. If he was right, the kid would be out the window in minutes. After all, nothing made a kid more impatient to do something on his own than the threat of unwelcome adult interference.

Sure enough, before the detective was done with his snack, he heard the soft '_shhk_' of the window being opened in the living room, heard the sounds of the city outside grow momentarily louder, and then the quiet '_shunk' _of the window being closed again.

Bullock hurried to his bedroom window and peered out through the blinds without touching them. The boy was perched on the outer railing of the fire escape, looking down as if gauging the distance to the ground. He had changed out of his sweats and was wearing his costume again, including an unhealthy amount of _nothing_ on his scrawny little legs. _Gonna freeze to death_, Bullock mentally scolded him. As if on cue, the icy wind flared Robin's cape out from his shoulders, resembling a yellow pair of wings being stretched—and then the kid leapt off the railing, plummeting straight towards the ground.

They were three stories up. Robin landed easily and was instantly on his way down the street. He wasn't quite running—it was more like _scurrying_, from shadow to shadow. But whatever gait he was using, he was definitely moving fast. Bullock cursed and scrambled towards his door, realizing that he'd have to be even _faster_ if he didn't want to lose him.

Once he got out to the street though, Bullock stopped and chuckled. He shouldn't have worried: there was plenty of last night's snow covering the sidewalks. Hardly anyone had walked through it, but everyone who _had_ had left a clear set of tracks. Including Robin.

* * *

Dick made it all the way back to the basement of the aquarium before the fear caught up with him. He stopped and waited for a long time at the start of that downward sloping corridor with the concrete floor, the one he'd flooded with water from the broken jellyfish tank.

It was the last place he'd seen Batman.

Now, it was emitting a foul seawater stench. And it was even darker than he remembered.

There was evidence that people had been in there during the day, probably starting repairs. A tool box and some extension cords had been left outside the entrance, along with a folding chair and several orange cones that hadn't been there the previous night.

But there was something else, too. Something invisible… no. Maybe he was just going crazy, but he was starting to get that _sense_ he got when he and Batman were training. It had helped him out a few times so far in actual fights against bad guys, too. It was undoubtedly an adaptation of a sense he'd developed with his _parents_: when you were flipping through the air fifty feet above the ground, you couldn't always _see_ the person who was going to catch you. You just had to _know _where they were. Where they were going to be. You had to sense them there, so you'd instinctively know when to let go, when to grab hold. And that was one of the secret ingredients of the amazing teamwork between Batman and Robin: Robin could _tell _where Batman was, without looking—he _knew_ where Batman would be. He could _sense_ it when there was an arm or a hand or a shoulder waiting for him to launch off of, latch on to, or take cover behind.

_I'm scared_, Dick admitted to himself, as he felt an ominous surge of adrenaline. _That must be what this is. If Batman was really anywhere around here, I'd be dodging batarangs by now. I'm just scared and I need to work through it._

He took one last look over his shoulder, running his eyes over the silent shadows. _Nobody's there. You're imagining it_, he convinced himself. He looked back down the corridor, took a deep breath, and proceeded towards the underground lab.

The smell got worse the further he went. The water was gone, and so was the broken glass. But the reek of stale brine permeated the poorly ventilated hallway, and probably would for many months to come.

The steel door with the cipher lock at the end of the hallway was hanging ajar. While the room beyond had been lit bright white the last time Robin was there, now it was pure black. Robin forced himself to breathe, and stepped into the room. Immediately placing his hand on the wall to the right of the door, he felt his way to the corner of the room, ears straining to detect the slightest presence of _anything_ in the thick, pressing darkness.

With his back wedged into the corner, and his ears not telling him anything, Robin knew it was time to shed a little light on his surroundings. Silently he pried the tiny flashlight from his belt. Held it out to one side as far as he could, and pointed it towards the center of the black mass that filled the room. Holding his breath without meaning to, the boy clicked on the light.

The sight that greeted him _was_ kind of creepy, but was by no means as bad as his imagination had been dreading: Batman _wasn't _standing there waiting for him. The cylindrical tank and the trapdoor beneath it that Dr. Milo had escaped through had been violently destroyed, torn up and cast aside in pieces, leaving a dark hole in the center of the room.

Robin crept to the edge of the hole, which was probably an elevator shaft, and resisted the urge to shine his flashlight down into it. Instead, he flipped the light off. After listening to the darkness for another minute, he began to climb down through the floor. His goal was to find Milo, after all, and this was where Milo had gone.

A few moments later, he reached the bottom, and felt around until he found a button on the wall.

Steeling his nerves, he pressed it.

A door slid back. What lay beyond was another laboratory, this one full of tanks and cages and shelf after shelf of meticulously labeled bottles and test tubes, illuminated only by the blue glow of computer screens. And the first thing Robin saw as he stepped forward into the lab was a _body_, tied up and suspended by its feet from the ceiling.

Batman had been there.

_But he's not here now_, Dick assured himself, as his heart jumped into his throat. Still, he scrubbed every shadow with his eyes before approaching the body, checking for any that might have looked _solid_.

Drawing closer, Robin wasn't surprised to discover that the motionless, upside-down victim of the bat was none other than Dr. Milo himself. His white lab coat was blotched with what could only have been blood and there was a dark, gleaming puddle on the floor beneath him, which was still being dripped into. Suddenly it occurred to the boy that Milo might've been dead—but just then he heard the faint wheeze of breath.

Robin stepped up to the puddle, and leaned forward a little. "…_Milo_," he whispered.

The man didn't answer. Robin bit his lip, realizing that Dr. Milo was unconscious. Working quickly, he secured another line around Milo's torso, tossing the end of it around a ceiling beam and tying it off to the leg of a heavy metal cabinet. Then he cut the line holding Milo's feet, so that his legs swung down, leaving him suspended right-side up. Finally the boy loosened the line from the cabinet, and lowered the badly beaten doctor to the ground.

Robin didn't waste any time hog-tying Milo's feet to his hands behind his back, despite the realization that both of the man's legs had been broken, snapped at the knees. "_Dr. Milo_," Robin whispered again, as the man groaned. "_Wake up_." Impatient, Robin searched the shelves until he spotted a gallon jug of water. Uncapping it, he poured some of it over Milo's bloody, unrecognizable face.

"_Guaghk_," Milo coughed, as his nose and mouth filled with water. One of his eyes was swollen shut, but the other fluttered and then opened wide. "_Bh…bat…_" he sputtered.

"No," Robin correctly quietly. "It's me." Milo recognized his voice, and his one open eye narrowed in hatred, sliding over to the boy.

"_There_ you are, _Robin_," Milo rasped, words slurred by recent loss of teeth. "_Someone's_ been _looking_ for you."

If that chilled him to the bone, Robin was determined not to let it show. "Give me the antidote, Milo," he said, doing his best to sound authoritative.

"_Antidote?_" Milo echoed, and his mangled face contorted in a sneer.

"Yes. I know there's an antidote for whatever you used on me and Batman. You're going to tell me where it is. Now!"

The wet, gurgling laugh from Milo's mouth was one of the worst sounds Robin had ever heard. "… and _why _would I do a thing like that?" he rasped. "Batman's _so close_…"

At that, a feeling like the scrape of a cold metal fingernail flew up Dick's spine, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up, but he clenched his hands into fists and refused to look over his shoulder. It _wasn't_ that sixth sense of his acting up, it _wasn't_. "…so _close_ to the _line_," Milo continued. "He's at the brink. And once he goes _over_, I can't wait to see how he'll self-destruct. He's the most violent animal I've ever seen. The most vicious—"

Suddenly, Robin heard a sound and whirled, batarang in hand.

It was a rustling, scraping sound, emanating from the narrow elevator shaft that Robin had climbed down. Swallowing, Robin returned his attention to the broken doctor at his feet. "Tell me now, Milo," he hissed. "Before he kills us both!"

"He'll only kill _you,_" Milo sneered in reply. "And then, hopefully, _himself_."

That sentiment was punctuated by the dull _thud_ of something heavy landing on the floor in the elevator shaft. Robin was out of time. He looked up, evaluating the spacing of the ceiling beams, and in the next instant, he disappeared.

* * *

Bullock had been pretty strict about _stealth_ as he'd been following the kid, but the narrow confines of the elevator shaft had just exceeded his tolerances. "Like Santy Claus climbin' down a flippin' chimney," Bullock grumbled to himself under his breath, making his way into the lab. "All I can say is, there better be a different route back _up_."

He sniffed the air, smelling blood, and his eyes were drawn to the puddle on the floor—and to the body hog-tied next to it. "Aw, jeez," Bullock muttered. He scratched the back of his neck, brought his hand around to rub the stubble on his chin, took a critical glance at his immediate surroundings, and then got a funny feeling and looked straight _up_, just in time to see the boy wonder jump down practically on top of him.

"It's you," Robin exclaimed in relief.

"Yeah, it's me all right," Bullock said, inwardly perturbed by just how friendly his voice had sounded as he'd said it. "I told you I wouldn't let you do this alone."

"How did you follow me?" Robin asked, curious and not even remotely reticent.

Bullock looked offended. "Gimme a break, kid. I've followed sleaze balls around this town who are a lot more slippery than you. So what d'we got?"

"I found Dr. Milo." Robin turned so they could both look down at the battered doctor.

Bullock raised an eyebrow. "From the looks of him, I'd say somebody _else_ found him first."

"He won't tell me where the antidote is," Robin related.

"Izzat _so?_" Bullock asked. He looked down at the doctor with renewed interest, and for the briefest second he considered calling the whole thing off—finding a light switch, calling an ambulance, getting the kid to a safe house, taking Milo into custody. Doing things by the book, not getting his hands dirty. But just as quickly, he discarded that idea. For one thing, it would take forever. And there was no guarantee that Milo would talk once the system was protecting him. _And_, most importantly, there was no guarantee that a safe house would be _safe _at all from a Bat who was out to kill.

Bullock made up his mind. He would handle this _now_.

He cracked his knuckles. "…We'll just _see_ about that."

"He… he's already pretty beaten up," Robin cautioned.

Bullock reached out and ruffled the kid's hair. "Well ain't you the perfect little _good cop_. But now it's _my_ turn." Casually, he shrugged off his trench coat and rolled up his sleeves, and then squatted down next to the doctor.

"And who the hell are _you?_" Milo sneered.

"Me?" Bullock gave him a hungry grin. "I'm your new _best friend_. 'Cause I'm the one that's gonna _stop _beating you once you tell this nice young man what he needs to know."

One thing about Harvey Bullock was that when it was time to play rough, he knew how to lay it on thick. And he _did_ have a reputation for getting information out of suspects—although the ways he _obtained_ that information were a large part of why Internal Affairs had a folder as fat as a phone book full of complaints against him.

"I hate to do this in front of a kid," Bullock muttered. "But that won't stop me, Milo. You're gonna talk."

Robin cringed as the interrogation began. He looked away, but the sounds Dr. Milo was making were inescapable, and made him want to cry. The few times so far in Robin's crime-fighting career that Batman had needed to _really_ hurt someone, like this, he'd sent the boy back to the car first.

Needing to distract himself, Robin decided to search the lab. The shelves full of test tubes went on in long rows all the way down the room. He looked at the labels on the tubes, but couldn't make any sense of them. Some of them seemed to be in Latin, but for all Alfred's efforts, Latin just wasn't sticking in Dick's brain.

Moving on, Robin examined the items on a nearby countertop. He found a large binder, which turned out to be an alphabetical index for everything on the shelves. He skimmed a few entries, his pulse quickening as he noticed that some of them _did _include entries for antidotes. After reading half a dozen entries, and not coming across anything that mentioned animals fighting and killing each other, Robin grew impatient and closed the book.

There were thousands upon thousands of test tubes and bottles in the lab. Assuming that what he was looking for _existed,_ and that it was contained somewhere on those shelves, and listed somewhere in that book, it might take _days _for him to find it. If only there was some way for him to know which of the test tubes had been used _recently_.

And no sooner had that thought crossed his mind than he noticed a _broken_ test tube on the floor of the otherwise tidy lab. He stooped and picked it up. The label was mostly destroyed, but he managed to make out the first word: _Poena_.

Having nothing better to do, Robin looked it up in the index. He found the page, and frowned at the unintelligible scrawl describing the serum's chemical structure. But then, he read the plain-english description of what the serum was supposed to do: _converts pain into pleasure_.

Robin froze. Come to think of it… Dr. Milo had never seemed all that tough. In fact, he'd seemed like a complete coward. And how he'd talked to Robin, when Robin had revived him—those hadn't been the words of a man in mortal agony.

Suddenly Robin was listening to the horrible sounds of the interrogation with new ears. The doctor was sobbing and whining and wheezing… but _what if_…

Ignoring the sudden onset of goose bumps, Robin's eyes flew to the bottom of the page. Yes. There was an antidote. Shelf 63.

"Stop!"

Bullock looked up, and rubbed sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "What is it?"

"I found the antidote."

Bullock blinked at him. "You _did?_"

"Yes, but not the one for Batman. I found the one for _him_." Robin nodded towards Milo, and held up the broken test tube. "You used this, didn't you?"

Milo twitched.

"When Batman showed up here, you treated yourself with this chemical so you wouldn't feel pain," Robin summarized, and held up a different test tube, full of a clear, innocuous-looking liquid. "But _this_ is the antidote for that. We give you _this_, and you'll feel every single one of your wounds the way you're supposed to."

"You wouldn't. You _can't_," Milo gasped, horrified.

Bullock knew real fear when he heard it, and bit down for all he was worth. "Oh yes we can, Milo. And we _will_, 'less you give us what we want."

"Shelf 114!" Milo squealed. "Brown bottle, green label!"

Robin found it and checked its entry in the book.

"Well?" Bullock demanded.

Robin read the page three times. "This is it," he concluded. "We've got it. We've got the antidote for Batman."

Bullock hauled himself to his feet, and took in the sight of the young boy wonder standing there confidently with the bottle in his hand, against the backdrop of shelf after endless shelf of bottles and test tubes. His own words from earlier echoed in his mind. _So you think it's gonna be that easy, huh?_

Bullock shook his head. If he didn't know better, he'd swear the kid must've had a superpower for turning _optimism_ into real, tangible luck. "Guess it really was that easy," he grumbled aloud. "Good work."

"Thanks. But I think the hard part's coming up."

"Whattaya mean? All we gotta do is find the Bat and make him take his medicine."

A hoarse laugh from Milo wiped the grins from both of their faces. "_Find him?_ Oh, you won't have to find him. _He'll find you_."

A batarang came spinning out of the darkness, slicing open Dick's wrist. The bottle fell from his hand, and rolled a short distance across the counter before coming to a stop.

Robin ducked down behind the counter, taking cover. His wrist was already bleeding profusely. Bullock was cursing, scrambling towards him, and was instantly at his side. They looked at each other, hassled dark eyes to wide white mask-lenses.

"Actually," growled a voice they both knew too well. "…_I just did_."

…to be continued!...


	6. sugar in coffee

_Author's note: Forgive me!!! I've been busy with real life! But now I am back! Be sure to re-watch "Robin's Reckoning" before you read this chapter!  


* * *

_

Chapter six: sugar in coffee

Robin clutched his bleeding wrist to his chest, his knees drawn up tightly in front of it.

"_Jesus_," Bullock muttered. "Hang on, kid, hang on." His tie was already loose around his neck, and with a good tug it slipped free. "Gimme your hand."

Robin swallowed, and wordlessly complied.

Bullock pulled off the boy's glove.

"I knew you'd come back here," said Batman's voice, low and unhurried. Still across the room.

_Not too tight, not too tight_, Bullock chanted to himself, wrapping his tie wide-end-first around the boy's wrist. "You got this?" he asked a second later, implying that he wanted to boy to finish the bandage himself.

"…But it took you longer than I thought," Batman said.

"Get the antidote," Robin urged, but Bullock was already on it. He popped up from behind the counter, ignored the pair of batarangs that shattered rows of test tubes on the shelves behind him, and grabbed the bottle. He ducked back down.

"Alright, son, you read the instructions, right? What do we gotta do with this?"

"I am…_surprised_… that you brought Detective Bullock," Batman mused.

Robin strained to remember what he had just read so carefully. "He… he could breathe it in," he recalled suddenly. "But it'd be fastest intra… intravenously. Like… like a shot, I think."

Bullock swore. "Just where are we supposed to find a…"

Robin's face went slack, and he pointed at the cupboard over Bullock's shoulder.

Bullock turned and looked through the glass door of the cabinet. A tray of old-fashioned needles and syringes was sitting right there, within reach.

"…I'll have to get him out of the way, before I can finally deal with you," Batman said. He sounded chillingly thoughtful.

Hands a little shaky, Bullock uncapped the antidote bottle, filled the syringe, and passed it to Robin. "I'll keep him busy," he promised the boy. "_You_ find a way to stick 'im."

Robin nodded once, and then his eyes went wide as Batman stepped out of the shadows at the end of the counter, towering over both of them.

Bullock felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he clenched his teeth, eyes narrowing in angry determination. "Oh no you don't, Bats," he growled. "You ain't getting past _me_."

The fight was on. In the narrow aisle between the counter and the shelves, Batman didn't have room to dodge as Bullock tackled him. In a move right out of Sumo wrestling, Bullock kept his center of gravity low, and wrapped his arms around the Bat's utility belt in a bear hug intended to knock him down. Batman staggered backwards, leaning across Bullock's back, trying to get his own arms around the man. Bullock felt it as the Bat got a good grip around his torso, and winced in anticipation as he realized that he was about to go for a ride.

Sure enough, Batman's next move was to let Bullock push him back, just enough to get some momentum, and then he sat down, flipping Bullock into the air. Bullock's three hundred pounds of bulk landed hard enough to make the rows of test tubes jump, but he still had a hold on the Bat and he wasn't about to let go.

Scrambling on the floor and in the midst of elbowing Bullock in the face, Batman realized that Robin had disappeared. "No," he grunted, and drove his elbow into the detective's nose yet again, this time with bloody results. "Let me up, Bullock. You're wasting my time."

"_Nuh_," was about as much response as Bullock could provide. Unable to extract himself from the larger man's hold, Batman got his feet underneath himself and stood, dragging Bullock up with him. For another minute they grappled in close quarters. Batman gave up trying to find the pressure points in the man's thick neck, and resorted to short-range jabs instead. Dizzy after taking a couple good blows, Bullock started to drop, but recovered on the way down and came right back up, head-butting Batman in the stomach. Body armor or not, Batman grunted and curled in on himself, and Bullock scored a ham-fisted punch that knocked the Bat sideways into the edge of the counter.

Batman fell to his hands and knees, and made a noise that was so painful and frustrated it made Bullock feel like he was winning. But then the Bat was back, faster and seeming _larger_ than before, and Bullock realized within seconds that the sound he'd mistaken for pain was actually _rage_.

He wasn't beating Batman. He was only making him angry.

He took an uppercut to the jaw, out of nowhere, and Bullock felt himself spin. Another blow, before he could recover, and he was reeling—and one more, this time squarely under his ribs, in calculated retribution for the head-butt. Bullock's feet carried him backwards, spots dancing in front of his eyes, and he realized he was out of time. He reached for his holster, a smooth, instinctive motion, and aimed for the bat-symbol.

"_Freeze_, you son of a—"

"Don't shoot!" Robin appeared between them, dropping down from the ceiling beams as he had before. Batman lunged for him, grabbed him and picked him up, holding the boy like a human shield.

Bullock cursed and lowered his gun. Batman had one arm around the boy's waist, the other across his chest—and one black-gloved hand gripping his throat. The boy was kicking, ineffectively, but he was also bringing his hands up, close to his body, so Batman couldn't see what he was holding-- and suddenly he was sliding the needle into the crook of Batman's elbow, where there wasn't any armor. He pushed the needle in as far as it would go, and as his vision tunneled and everything went black, he willed himself to push the plunger.

* * *

The next thing Robin knew, he was being dragged by his uninjured wrist out from under a heavy thing that was crushing him. The heavy thing, he realized in the next instant, was the collapsed form of Batman, and the person dragging him was Harvey Bullock.

"Kid?" Bullock asked, realizing he was awake.

"I'm okay," Robin said, and Bullock let go of his arm. Slowly, the boy wonder sat up, and looked down at Batman. "…We did it," he realized, voice and expression numb.

"_You_ did it, kid. Just in time, too. I could tell you blacked out, but about two seconds after that, _bam_. The bat went down for the count."

"What now?" Robin asked quietly, watching as Batman's back heaved slightly from his breathing.

"Guess that's up to you," Bullock said, shrugging to seem indifferent rather than generous. "Although at some point we probably oughtta call an ambulance for Dr. Smartypants over there."

"…What about Batman? You're… you're not gonna arrest him, are you?"

Bullock shook his head. "Next time, kid. Next time."

The grizzled detective and the young caped crimefighter looked at each other. They were both bruised, disheveled, bloody-- Bullock had blood smeared all over his unshaven face and down the front of his shirt, thanks to his still-bleeding nose. And there was the kid, staring back at him, Bullock's tie bandaging his wrist and the unconscious Batman at his feet.

For a second, an expression of mutual appreciation passed between them. But it was more than that—each had managed to impress the other.

"_Uhn_," Batman grunted, reviving. Robin instantly knelt beside him, and laid a tentative hand on his shoulder.

"Batman?"

"…Robin."

Relieved, Robin looked up at Bullock. "He's gonna be okay," he announced. He looked back down. "I'll stay with him."

"…No," Batman said, rolling to his side.

The boy was taken aback. "_What?_"

Batman was already getting to his feet. The needle still hung from his arm, and he pulled it away. His voice rumbled, broken and blunt. "I tried to kill you."

"No—"

"I know what I did, Robin, I know what I felt." He began to back away, shoulders hunched almost defensively.

"But… you're better now. It's over. We can go home."

Batman shook his head no. "I…I need a little time."

"How _much_ time?" Robin demanded, as Batman slipped farther back into the shadows. "Batman, _please!_"

The Bat hesitated. "A day," he said at last, although he sounded unsure. "Tomorrow." The white lenses in his mask focused coldly on Bullock. "Take care of him," he said to the detective, and vanished into the blackness.

* * *

The paramedics arrived to collect Dr. Milo and Bullock bullied them into looking at Robin's wrist, stitching and bandaging it on the spot--and off the books.

Later, in the cab on the way back to Bullock's place, the cabbie kept looking in the rear-view mirror with a suspicious expression, which quickly got on Bullock's nerves.

"Hey! You wanna keep your eyes on the road, pal?" he demanded at last, his tone even more abrasive than usual.

"What's with the kid?" the cabbie asked back, just as rude. "Halloween was a couple months ago."

"You serious? You don't know who this is?" Bullock scrunched his shoulders up and pointed at Robin with both hands, palms out flat. "This is Robin, the Goddamned Boy Wonder. Now put your eyes on the road."

The cabbie looked forward. "…_That's_ the kid been runnin' around with the Bat?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but yeah," Bullock confirmed. The cabbie snuck another peek at his passengers, and wrinkled up his mouth under his moustache.

"…So what's the matter with 'im?"

Bullock looked over at Robin, and his eyes widened. He'd been so focused on watching the cabbie in the mirror that he hadn't noticed that the boy beside him had pulled his knees up to his chest, and was hiding his face between them, the very picture of dejection. "Aw, jeez, kid!" Bullock exclaimed. "What's wrong with you?"

"…nothing," Robin mumbled, and with a twinge of concern Bullock realized that that was the first word the boy had uttered since Batman had left them in the lab. For a horrible minute, Bullock pitied him. The boy had had a pretty rough day, nearly being killed by his big bad mentor and then being pushed away and told to wait until tomorrow just when he thought he'd saved the day—and now he was heading back to spend another night on Bullock's ratty old couch, eating potato chips and leftovers for dinner and breakfast… no wonder the kid was depressed!

Bullock leaned forward in his seat. "All right, change of plans. Turn us around. This kid needs some supper and a big slice of pie."

* * *

It wasn't until they pulled up at the curb that Robin recognized the place: the Time-Out Café, open 24 hours. He'd wound up there once before, nearly two years ago, while searching for the man who'd killed his parents.

"_This_ place?" Robin asked, in high-pitched surprise. The night he'd eaten there had been the night he'd first learned Batman's identity. The night that, in some way, he must've proven himself to Bruce. Earned his trust. Seeing the place again brought the memories of that night rushing back.

"Yeah, why?" Bullock asked, paying the cabbie. "I know all the places in this town that are open all night. _This _one happens to have decent pie."

"But… I'm in my costume," Robin needlessly pointed out.

"And?"

"And… I'm… we're both covered in blood!"

"Pfft." Bullock opened the door and hauled himself out of the cab. "This is the lower east side, kid. I'm sure they've seen worse. Let's go."

Before the boy managed to put together a reasonable argument, the hefty detective had hurried him out of the car and into the café. Finding himself plunked down in the same seat he'd sat in the last time he was there, Dick found the whole situation to be a little surreal. The almost-eleven-year-old Robin was a much different boy than the almost-nine-year-old Dick Grayson, and yet everything in the little restaurant was exactly as it had been that night.

"Hey, Roberta!" Bullock hollered. "Two chicken-fried steaks and two slices of pie!"

"Keep yer shirt on, Harvey," a husky-voiced woman hollered back. "Lord knows _you_ ain't gonna starve anytime soon."

"Yeah, but I got a little boy out here who might," Bullock announced, and then looked at Robin with an aggravated scowl. "That'll bring her runnin'," he confided, and sure enough, the waitress appeared seconds later, dishtowel in one hand and coffee pot in the other. She was nearly as large and as grumpy-looking as Bullock, and Dick realized with a start that he recognized her. She had been the waitress that night, the one who had given him a lead on finding Tony Zucco.

Roberta the waitress looked at them both for a minute, taking in the sight of the rumpled detective with the broken nose, the costumed boy with the bandaged wrist, and the bloodstains on both of them. For a second Robin worried that she would recognize him, but then felt a surge of confidence as he recalled that even Commissioner Gordon hadn't been able to see through his mask.

The waitress set the coffee pot on the table and put her fist on her hip. "Well, ain't you growin' up handsome?" she said, and Robin turned white.

"You remember me?" he asked, voice wavering a little.

"'Course I do. Been a while, but I never forget a face. Now stand up an' lemme look at you."

Awkwardly, Dick stood up, hands at his sides and clutching the edges of his cape. Roberta clucked at him, shaking her head in disapproval, and leaned forward to wipe a smudge off his cheek with her dishtowel.

Robin thought of his mother, blushed scarlet, and looked down at his shoes.

"There," the waitress said warmly, and Dick took that to mean she was done babying him. He found his seat again, face still red with embarrassment.

Roberta slung the towel over her shoulder so she could put both hands on her hips. "Harvey Bullock," she scolded. "I won't even _ask _what you think you're doin' dragging this poor boy around this part o' town in the middle of the night. I don't want to know."

Bullock's eyes were bugging out of his leathery face. "Wait a minute, Bertie—you _know_ this kid?"

"I know he's taller and skinnier than the last time I saw 'im, and that's about all," Roberta replied, defensive. "He ain't in trouble with the law, izze?"

"Not at the moment, no," Bullock retorted in the same preemptively offended tone. "Now are you plannin' on feedin' us anytime soon?"

"You'll mind your manners or you'll get _bupkes_," she threatened, but was already plodding back towards the kitchen.

She'd left the coffee, so Bullock poured himself a mug. He glanced up at Robin. "You want summa this?"

Robin frowned. "…Sure," he answered, determined, and held out his own mug.

Bullock tried his best to keep his grin to himself. He'd known the kid would be looking for the first available chance to prove he was more of a grown-up after having his face scrubbed by Bertie's dishtowel. He filled Robin's mug two-thirds of the way and then pretended to be paying attention to his own steaming cup.

Robin's reaction to that first sip of black coffee was absolutely priceless, and Bullock nearly drowned himself as he struggled not to guffaw out loud.

"Ugh," Robin couldn't help but say, wiping his mouth on the back of his glove.

"Aw, kid! You shouldda seen your face!"

Grimacing, yet obviously committed to finishing what he'd started, Robin took another sip. Bullock reached for the sugar.

"Here you go, son, this'll fix it." He dumped two heaping teaspoons into the mug, and stirred it for him.

"…Isn't it _weak_ to put sugar in coffee?" the boy asked, glum.

"Who told you that? Sugar in coffee's a beautiful thing. Sometimes somethin' strong an' bitter needs a little somethin' sweet to even it out." He paused, vaguely perturbed by the inadvertent metaphor in that sentiment.

The boy seemed unconvinced. "Besides, I put sugar in my coffee all the time," Bullock lied.

Looking somewhat reassured, Robin took another sip, and this time his face brightened into a smile. "Hey, you're right. This isn't bad."

"Glad you like it," Bullock said, and settled back to take a long swig of his own coffee, hot and black. "Gotta say," he added after a minute. "That face o' yours just now was the best thing I've seen all day."

Even with his mask on, it was evident that Robin was rolling his eyes, believing that the disgruntled detective was teasing him.

And never in a million years would Bullock admit that he'd actually been talking about the boy's smile.

...to be concluded...

* * *

_Another note: and I promise, it WILL be concluded SOON!!! Thanks for hanging in there, everyone who waited forever to read this-- and thanks for the steady stream of favs and reviews! You guys really know how to make a gal feel loved. :D_


	7. sign of spring

Chapter seven: sign of spring

The phone was ringing off the wall when Bullock finally trudged through his front door that night, boy wonder in tow.

"Yeah?" Bullock demanded, snatching the phone off the hook.

Batman's unmistakable growl practically bit through Bullock's ear. "_Let me speak to him_."

Disguising a shudder as a shrug, Bullock held out the phone to the boy. "It's fer you."

With hopeful eyes, Robin held the phone to his head with both hands.

"…hello?" he asked in a cautious tone.

On the other end, Batman hunched his shoulders. He thought he'd known what he wanted to say, but now, hearing Dick's voice through the phone, it all seemed inadequate.

"I…wanted to make sure you were okay," he rumbled at last.

"I'm all right," came the immediate reply. Batman seemed to be holding his breath. Robin bit his lip, and waited for a few more seconds.

Bullock couldn't hear what Batman said next, but whatever it was, Robin's reaction was pretty strong. The boy sat down cross-legged on the floor in Bullock's kitchen, and gripped the phone as if it were the only thing left in the world that mattered. "_No,_" he said after a minute. "…you _didn't_. I mean, you didn't want to—"

"Don't argue," Batman said sternly, and Robin shut up. Batman gathered his scattered thoughts, and took a deep breath. "What I'm trying to say… is that I'm sorry. It was my _fault_, Robin. I let it happen. I should have done my research better—should never have walked into that trap. Especially not while you were there."

Bullock didn't know what the Bat was saying, but neither did he care. Whatever it was, it was making Robin upset. Bullock watched as the boy wiped the edge of his mask with his bandaged wrist, and decided that was the last straw.

"Give me that!" he yanked the phone out of Robin's hands. "Now you listen up, _Batman_," he hollered. "That kid saved your crazy life tonight. You owe him, Bats—you owe him big time!"

"…I know," Batman said.

Bullock blinked a few times. "Oh," he said at last, still sounding angry.

"Tell him."

Bullock wasn't sure if that had been an order or a plea. "Excuse me?"

"Tell him he did well. And tell him I'll see him in the morning—eight o'clock, by the Bat signal."

"Tell him yourself!" Bullock barked, but the line was already dead. Growling unintelligible obscenities through clenched teeth, Bullock slammed the phone back into its cradle on the wall. Then he forced himself to take a deep breath, and glanced down at Robin's solemn face. "…Batman says you did good today," he related. "And he'll pick you up at eight A.M. tomorrow."

Robin nodded, and then looked away, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists, still sitting cross-legged on Bullock's kitchen floor.

"What is it?" Bullock asked, sensing that the kid was mulling something over.

"I'm worried," Robin confided.

"Why's that?"

"He sounded angry."

Bullock's eyebrows climbed all the way up to the brim of his hat, which he suddenly realized that he was still wearing. With a heavy sigh, Bullock took off his trench coat and his hat, hung them both by the door. Then, knees creaking in protest, he sat down on the floor next to the boy. This, he realized, would be the conversation they _hadn't_ had in the aftermath of the events at the lab. The conversation they hadn't had in the cab on the way home or under the watchful ears of the waitress at the 24-hour café.

Bullock knew he wasn't exactly known for tact. But for once in his life, he hoped that he would be able to say the right things.

"…He ain't angry at you, kid," Bullock began. "He's only angry at himself. An' it ain't up to you to bear the weight of his problems on your little shoulders, you got that? He may be crazier than half the loons he puts away, but he's responsible for you. _You_ ain't responsible for _him_."

"But…we're partners," Robin muttered, not really wanting to get into a dispute.

"Sure you are. But you're also father and son, or close enough. He's not gonna forget that, and neither should you. You saved his sorry bacon today, and the only thing you need to be worried about right now is how many hours of sleep you can get between now and eight o'clock, okay?"

"Okay," Robin agreed, half-heartedly. They both sat for a moment, side by side in silence, neither one attempting to move or speak.

"…Sorry I ain't much for heart-to-heart chats," Bullock apologized after a while, mentally deciding to write the whole conversation off as a loss.

But then Robin cast him a lopsided smile. "No, this is fine," the boy reassured him. "Actually, I was thinking… Batman told me I could talk to Commissioner Gordon if I ever needed to talk to somebody. And, I respect Commissioner Gordon a lot, but, maybe, if you wouldn't mind, I think I'd talk to you instead."

"Talk to me about what?" Bullock asked, suspicious.

Robin shrugged. "I don't know. Sometimes, I think Batman takes things a lot more seriously than I do."

If Bullock had been even slightly more amicable, he might've smiled. "Heh. I'd say that's a fair guess. Let me ask you one question though: do you _like_ being Robin?"

"I love it," the boy replied, his voice serious. "Sometimes, I love it so much that I feel kinda guilty."

"Guilty, huh? What for?"

There was a faraway look on Robin's face. "For being so happy now," he explained. "Because the reason we do all of this—" he took a deep breath "—I mean Batman and I, the reason for all of it, is because of _crime_ and horrible things like that. So, I feel guilty for having fun being Robin."

Bullock mulled over that for a minute. "Well, you didn't have any fun _today,_ did ya?"

Robin shook his head. "No, not today," he admitted.

"See? It all evens out. My advice to you? Go ahead and enjoy yourself as much as you can."

"Really?"

"Holy hot dogs, kid, you're _ten_ years old. I think you're allowed to have a little fun."

Robin almost laughed. "Holy _hot dogs_?"

"Yeah yeah, whatever. Look, it's been a heck of a day," Bullock said, pretending to be irritated by the fact that he'd cheered the boy up. "You gonna hit the shower or what?"

"Yes," Robin answered, standing up at last.

"You go ahead and get yourself cleaned up. An' let me know if you need anything."

Dick paused for a second. While Bullock certainly possessed all of the bulk and half of the charm of a grouchy hippopotamus, something in the man's voice just then had reminded him of Alfred.

"Thanks," Robin said, and slipped away down the hall.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, clean and warm in the Gotham Knights sweats that Bullock had given him, Dick leaned close to the bathroom mirror. The sky-blue eyes in the pale face that stared back at him seemed to belong to someone else. He'd been wearing his mask for over 24 hours straight at that point, having only removed it once for a shower early in the day. By now, it had left a red outline clearly visible on his face.

Dick rubbed his eyes with both hands. He'd washed his costume out as best he could and hung it over a towel bar to dry. The only thing left to do was to put his mask back on, and then he could get some sleep. Carefully he pressed the molded fabric into place, and looked back up at the mirror.

This time, he recognized his reflection.

When he got back to the living room, Robin found detective Bullock sitting on one end of the couch, passed-out asleep and snoring in little growls as the paid programming on the television tried in vain to sell him the latest vacuum cleaner.

Turning out the lights but leaving the TV on, Robin climbed onto the opposite end of the couch, curled into a ball under the blanket Bullock had left there for him, and was sound asleep in seconds.

* * *

By eight o'clock the sun had finally seeped through the morning smog and lingering snow clouds in the Gotham sky, and the boy wonder had been bouncing from one foot to the other on the roof of the GCPD headquarters for fifteen minutes. Beside him, hands deep in the pockets of his coat, a bleary-eyed Bullock stood with a toothpick hanging from his lips. He looked like a man with a severe hangover, one who had clearly had enough of the kid's impatient fidgeting but had given up on saying so.

Suddenly Robin's head jerked up, and Bullock followed the boy's line of sight just in time to see Batman swing onto the roof. The black cape fell heavily around the hard corners of his silhouette as he stood to face them, less a menace than a mystery against the slanting yellow light.

Robin glanced up at Bullock with a smile of a hundred-percent happiness, and then launched himself in Batman's direction with a spontaneous front handspring.

Bullock's face actually softened for a second, forgetting himself as he was caught up in the kid's relief and excitement. He fairly expected Robin to jump into Batman's arms for a hug, like any kid would after a stressful separation from their dad, but to Bullock's surprise Batman seemed to anticipate and avoid that exact occurrence. Instead of catching the boy in an embrace, the Bat put out his hands and clamped them onto Robin's shoulders, stopping the boy in his tracks at arm's length. The abrupt halt of forward momentum seemed far too harsh from Bullock's angle, like Batman might've actually shoved the boy backwards if he'd tried any harder to stop him. Robin immediately raised his eyes to Batman's face, confused, but Batman wasn't looking at him—he was looking at Bullock.

Hard-boiled though he was, Bullock still felt a chill as he found himself fixed in the Bat's predatory glare. But that feeling was quickly replaced by a hot wash of anger. "For Pete's sake," he exclaimed, taking his hands out of his pockets. "Will you give the kid a hug already?"

Batman didn't hesitate for another second. He dropped to one knee in front of the boy and pulled him in close.

"Thank God you're safe," Bruce rumbled quietly from under the cowl. Dick didn't know what to say, so he only nodded. After another second, Batman released him. "Good job defeating me last night," he added, in as warm a voice as Dick had ever heard him use. "That was impressive work."

"I couldn't have done it without Detective Bullock," Robin stated, and beamed over his shoulder at the disheveled grump.

"Eh, it was nothin'," Bullock shrugged, refusing to be pleased by the kid's gratitude. He glanced at Batman, who had stood back up to face him, and scowled at the caped vigilante's defensive posture. "Hey--you mind if I have a word with you, Bats?"

Batman gave a little nod, as if he'd been expecting that request. "Robin. Go wait in the car."

The boy's expression clouded. "You're not gonna _fight_, are you?"

"No. I'll be along in a minute."

"Okay." Robin turned back to Bullock. "Well, thanks again," he said in parting.

"You stay outta trouble, kid," Bullock advised. "An' don't let any a'em clowns or mad scientists push you around."

A big, confident grin flashed across the boy's face. "Don't worry, I won't!" he exclaimed. He stood on his tiptoes on the edge of the roof, and then swan-dived off.

Batman watched as his yellow cape vanished from sight, and then turned to look solemnly at Bullock.

"That's one great kid you got there," Bullock said right away.

"Yes. And I wanted to thank you for taking care of him."

"Ehh, don't worry about it. Really _I _oughtta be thanking _him_. Turns out we had seventeen warrants out on Doctor Creepy. An' who got the credit for the collar?" Bullock stuck his thumb towards his own chest. "_This_ guy."

"But you don't approve of Robin working with me."

"Approve?" Bullock snorted, indignant. "Damn right I '_don't approve'_. You're still a freak in my book, Bats, and if you knew what was good for ya, you'd hang up the cape for good." Batman stood there silently, bearing this tirade. "But let me tell you one thing," Bullock continued. "That kid—he's all right. He's proved he's got guts, brains, and _luck_. So you must be doing something right. And whatever it is, you better keep on doing it, for his sake as much as yours."

"You aren't worried that I'm endangering or abusing him?"

Bullock rolled his eyes. "Gimme a break. Livin' in Gotham is 'endangering' to every kid out there. At least _this_ kid can fight back. And if you're talking about _you _being a threat to him on some _other _level, sure: I had suspicions about that. You're a wacko in a mask prancin' around with a little boy sidekick. People are always gonna think the worst. But you better believe that if I _really_ thought you were doin' anything bad to him, there'd be half a dozen bullet holes in your head right now."

Batman hunched his shoulders ever-so-subtly. "…Is Commissioner Gordon still concerned?"

"The commish?" Bullock shook his head. "Nah. Once I gave him the rundown on what happened last night, and he saw for himself that the kid was alive and well, he went right back to believin' that you walk on water. Gordon trusts you."

"But you don't."

"I trust the kid," Bullock replied with conviction.

Batman squinted out at the city, and the wind that was gradually sweeping aside the clouds flared the edges of his cape. "Well. That's a start."

"Yeah, it _is_ a start. I don't say this often, Bats, but after this little adventure we just had, I'm _almost_ feelin' optimistic. I think your little Robin just might do some good out there. Might even grow up to be a decent cop someday. You just make sure he _gets_ a chance to grow up, capiche?"

"I will," Batman promised.

"Good." Bullock stuck his hands back in his pockets with a sense of finality. "That's pretty much everything I wanted to say. So go on an' _scram_ before I write you up for loitering."

Batman had to fight back a smile as he unclipped his grappling gun. "Thanks, Bullock. I would shake your hand, but you _did_ try to shoot me yesterday." He turned and fired his line.

As he swung down into the shadows, Bullock hollered after him, "…And if you ever threaten the commish again like you did yesterday, I'll try an' shoot you _again!_"

* * *

Robin hit the button to slide the roof open at just the right moment, and Batman dropped out of the sky and into the driver's seat.

"What'd you guys talk about?" Robin asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

Batman buckled himself in and shifted to drive. "Bullock thinks you'll grow up to be a cop."

"Huh," Dick said as the Batmobile began rolling forward. "I never thought about that."

"You aren't growing up any time soon," Batman grumbled. "So I wouldn't worry about it. Are you ready to go home?"

Robin looked over at Batman, and then sat up a little straighter in his seat. "I _am_ home," he said with zeal.

That time, Batman knew it was futile to try to hide his smile. He steered towards the manor as the unseasonably bright sky overhead flooded the city with sun.

Maybe, just maybe, Gotham City was headed for better days.

The end!


End file.
